Broadway Strays
by Albatross Zeta
Summary: Buster couldn't hide from the SFJ Bank for long. A show destined for greatness never meets by its initial lure. How does the river flow without that prominent watershed moment? As it turns out, crisis can bring even the strangest of bedfellows together. And a moment might be all you need...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination Entertainment. I make not a cent on this, as such. Any original characters mentioned are mine. Any songs mentioned belong to their respective owners.

Author's Note: This is a bit of a prologue, but don't let the character tags fool you. I will try to balance it out across the cast. Also, I shall keep working on 'Flash in the Pan' and I have something set up as a sequel to the 'Jack of Hearts Hotel'. Please stay in tune for those, and enjoy this little work. I couldn't resist.

Chapter 1: Payment's Due

 **June 3** **rd** **...**

Judith Flacco did not relish being the bad guy. She carried herself with utmost professionalism, and dotted her I's and crossed her T's like any worker vested in the job would. Some might argue she grinned when she snapped shut a contract or repossessed a property of hopefuls, but the writing and warnings embroidered the wall long before she pulled the plug and signed the paperwork.

Judith admitted she broke dreams, more dreams than most sleeping pills. Like a bully wrestler in the wide, wide world of sports, she crushed more than her fair share of businesses and retirement plans with dispassionate eloquence.

They all heard her warnings, but in the end, she couldn't really be blamed for their failures. She didn't run charity cases, as her bank reminded her. San Francisco Junction Bank, in the heart of that red and gold, expected returns with their loans, expected growth with their lent money. They didn't pour and toss alms for individuals to survive, wasting the money and finding their poor selves back in a position to beg. SFJ expected them to thrive, to flourish, to brandish new minds and new businesses, and to collect their back pay from said successes. SFJ Bank _never_ threw good money after bad…but they had made exceptions before.

Not today. Though wearing the hat of a villain didn't please the llama, Judith had her marching orders with a particular koala.

Buster Moon had his ways out of a paper bag, but she caught on quickly enough.

In the beginning, Buster had secured ownership from Morgan Moon, as the deed in the records indicated, and at first SFJ Bank had nothing to do with him. However, Judith was a connoisseur of entertainment as much as the next layman, and she heard in her spare time the boring shows that came out of his theater. Ticket sales dropped, and from that money woes followed, and Buster committed to a course Judith had witnessed many times.

He forwarded a request for a loan.

The bankers had been reticent at first, aware of the litany of bombs that Buster produced. His natural charisma and almost carnival-barker rhetoric assuaged them over the first time, and then the second, and then the third, until he had to put up the deed.

Bills weren't getting paid on time, and every promise sounded more poisonous than before. Judith long figured that to make their money back, SFJ Bank would have to repossess the theater and sell it to the highest bidder, as Buster dipped some ownership into it as it was, just to pay back his debts. That he kept avoiding her (as if she couldn't figure out that the 'lunch breaks' were just stalling tactics), only stroked irritation, but this time, the bank had long lost their patience.

Either repossess the theater or get a new job herself.

She actually quite enjoyed the perks that came with being a rep of SFJ, so the decision, despite the need of a dastardly, hard mask, came easy. Already, the bank was losing its mind over its incoming transport of gold (another mountain of paperwork awaited Judith when she got back), and needed to get the scab that was Buster Moon out of their hair.

The decrepit pallor of the Moon Theater grew in sight as she parked. When she first started business with Moon, the theater shone in the dark, implying seductive majesty and an inviting aura that would make people want to come in. Buster, as the bank had witnessed, actually made a profit in the beginning, but word of mouth shut down the illusory grandeur. Soon Moon had to literally throw himself out on the street to get people to come to the show, hiding the moment a bank rep appeared or called.

As she parked, Judith noted that she wasn't the first to take umbrage with Moon's money woes. As if the bank harping on him wasn't bad enough (and the act of repossession and eviction, complete with documents and a phone ready to call the cops if necessary on hand), apparently he couldn't afford to pay his _workers_. The stage crew, numbering a dozen, stomped inside, pushing the door with betrayed hands. She could see their mouths move to the irritation of doing a job, promised pay, and failing to receive when the bill came due.

 _Nothing_ pissed off a laborer quite like a check that bounced like a brand new set of tires.

She waited in the car, as the laborers would've bottlenecked everything. Hatching her own scheme, as she needed to speak with him directly (legalities and such), she waited for the inevitable escape routine, eyeballing his little bicycle.

With a flick, her cellphone was out.

"Hello, this is Moon Theater. How may I help you?"

The old voice of Miss Crawley answered politely. It was a simple script, an old song-and-dance she had heard before. She felt business script pour out of her mouth, aware before the words even formed how this would go.

"This is Judith Flacco from SFJ Bank, calling. Is Mr. Moon available? We need to talk about his debts. The Board's very interested in having a chat."

"Oh, yes, yes," Crawley answered tactfully. She didn't have to be in the room with the old lizard to know the baton pass happening. "Can you give me a moment? Let me see if Mr. Moon is available?"

"I can hold, yes."

She could picture the scene so well Judith might as well had x-ray vision through those glasses. This surprised her the first time. It angered her the second time and third. By the seventh time, Judith drew looks of mortified shock from her fellow workers at the bank, as she perforated the air with every sort of four-letter word, traced from her to her bosses.

Crawley would waddle to where Moon undoubtedly was, and Moon would disappear like some crackpot magician. The excuses that rolled into the phone when she got back only raised her blood pressure and tightened the pressure on her head.

" _Mr. Moon's on lunch right now, but he'll be back in a few hours."_

 _"I'm sorry, but Mr. Moon had a prior engagement. He'll call you back later."_

 _"Mr. Moon's out with some sponsors, Judith. But I'll have him call you back when he gets in!"_

Though she impeded her efforts, Judith admired that kind of loyalty. It would've made the job certainly easier if the old chameleon just did the right thing, but that made what she had to do all the harder.

She waited, her cellphone on her passenger's seat as the whole chain of events played out like clockwork.

The predatory nature of this, trying to corner Moon into this, rankled her, made her feel almost grimy from the circumstances. At the end of the day, like many that failed to pay off their debts, Judith simply was doing her job. Even when the theater was auctioned off in the following days, even when Moon goes and does whatever it is that he intended to do absent a theater, she would return home and watch her shows, pay her bills and call her friends. The routine preceded this, all of them pulling stunts of pleading and pillory to try to evade the fairness of the deal. Their misfortunes weren't the fault of the bank, but their own, and they incurred a debt meant to be repaid. Money didn't stop Judith from sympathizing from the incident, to understand that, despite her brusque demeanor, she would still be destroying a career. Maybe.

But by their own fault or bad luck, the bill comes due.

She heard the noise fast enough. The roof bounced in noise as she caught Buster shimmying down the pole, intent on an escape as expected. Eyes followed the blueprint and caught the direction: Judith could predict him rushing past her car, most likely on a bike (because on no circumstances was she chasing him in these high heels). The koala clambered onto his bike, with intent of departure, and hastened to his exit…

Judith flung open her passenger door.

The massive wheel on Buster's ride smacked hard into the door: Despite its light weight, it held on to its ground.

Buster on the other hand flew like a lawn dart out of his bike seat. Judith didn't see the soaring height, only him crashing to the ground in a roundabout fashion. Sandwich bread littered the ground around him, with the muddled muck of lettuce and eucalyptus plastering the cracked sidewalk. A piece of cheese flopped onto the street before a Prius stamped the American slice onto its wheel. As for Buster himself, the suit seemed roughed up but…

"Mr. Moon," Judith called out. Already the mask fastened onto her face. Stern and unforgiving, like an electric chair at execution, the syllables of her greeting bolted into his skin. He couldn't escape.

"Oh, oh! Judith, well, fancy meeting you here. I thought-"

Judith held up her cellphone, brightly cataloguing her recent call upstairs that she did minutes ago.

"Mr. Moon. I don't appreciate my time being wasted on nonsense. Especially when your secretary's lying about your whereabouts."

Her finger flicked the phone off, cutting the connections like she cut his escape.

"Mr. Moon-"

"Now, now, Judith, I have the money-"

" _Mr. Moon_." A concrete bite slipped through her teeth. Furrowed eyes poised in exasperation and tired elegance shut down his own desperation, little legs trying to find an exit route, to delay, to withdraw, to prolong the inevitable. A solid solemnity answered him, warning him not to trifle her now, only to listen and obey, all in a single stony utterance, and the folders of paperwork clutched under her arms.

"Mr. Moon," She started again. "Step into my office."

An arm gestured to her car. Small by her height, but easy enough for the koala.

"Judith, _please_ -"

She ignored his anxiety, cresting over his normally-optimistic face and sparkling eyes. Instead, her hands threw open her folder, and pulled out the legal documents, laying out all the rules and regulations to their business deal. The melancholy in his voice, scratching at her ears like escapees in a prison cell, hardened her resolve. She needed to do this, as the bill came due.

"Judith, give me a bit more time, please, I can get the money-"

"Mr. Moon. My office."

She would not brook rebellion in her paperwork. She would not make exceptions, even if St. Peter himself came down and pleaded Buster's case for him. She could not set a precedent for sap stories and ten-chances, no matter how charismatically performed or how truthful they might be. Even if he had the money waiting in a magic box just around the corner, or in a dumpster, or in a hobo's dirty trenchcoat, or if he stole it from an ice cream vendor across the street or from an overpaid basketball player from Cleveland (because damn it, she actually liked the Browns more than the Cavaliers), she still would drop the hammer on this. He could always come back and by it with the money, but no exceptions.

She glowered from under her red glasses, pointing at her car the way a mother would force her two-year old into the bathroom. Buster's eyes pleaded when his voice failed, but he lowered his head. His feet began to twitch, and Judith wagged a finger at the notion, underlining the unsaid message.

 _Run from me now, and I'll take everything_

That was all the situation said. Buster clambered into the backseat, as Judith took the front. Unconventional to hold a repossession here, but she had a damn time just getting him face-to-face. Into her glove box she dove, producing a tape recorder. The triangle shone green, and she started.

"Mr. Moon, you are aware of the nature of this meeting?"

No response.

"Please answer clearly for the purpose of records."

"Yes."

"You are aware of the purpose of this meeting?"

"Yes."

"Do you have the money to pay your debts to San Francisco Junction Bank for the loans you have solely taken in your name, as property for the Moon Theater?"

"If you'd give me some time, I'll-"

"Do. You. Have. The. Money. Now?"

Unprofessional: She didn't mean to come off as heartless when she very obviously was ripping his heart and soul out right now. She needed to be polished and kempt during this, even as his ears continued to droop, even as sadness, the sheer _awareness_ of what was happening, plummeted on his body.

"No. I don't."

"Do you understand that, as you cannot repay your debts with liquid assets, we will be repossessing your property, listed here as 'Moon Theater', as reparations for your failure to repay your loans on time? Due to its status as 'collateral', listed on Line F-3a?" She held up the contract, forcing him to look at his and her signatures at the bottom.

"Yes."

"You understand that, as you signed the contract for said loans, that this is all covered legally, with notary present, when you asked for said loans?"

A sigh, then… "Yes. I understand."

"Buster Moon, by the authority of the San Francisco Junction Bank, I am hereby authorized to repossess all property classified as a part of the Moon Theater, placing this under the ownership of the bank until a suitable purchaser comes and claims it. You will be expected to be off the grounds of the Theater during the time of repossession, along with belongings that are of your ownership. If you try to prevent any of this, law enforcement will be summoned. Your debts will be covered by this, but if the balance is off, we will likely pursue further legal action. Do you understand?"

"Judith, please, don't-"

"Do you understand, Mr. Moon?"

During most of this, she remained with her back to him, looking at him through the rear-view window. His face and morale folded more and more onto itself, looking akin to a crumpled memo as the reality and the consequences of his failures pummeled into his psyche. A twinge of guilt entered her mind, neatly folded under the stoic brow she brandished, and wayward thoughts flittered about. Judith had done this many times, but safety nets sprung up for many of her past collections. Buster, if his taxes had been anything to go by, didn't even have an apartment, and so the transition of property rendered him effectively homeless.

Would he be all right?

A strange thought for one literally taking away one's livelihood in a swish of magic paperwork and contractual obligations, but Judith reminded herself, she wasn't heartless. Just as much as Buster Moon paraded in his job as a manager of a failing theater, she too, took the job as a collection agent and bank representative. The perks were good, but she had given the warnings long enough. Every action had a consequence, and every _non_ -action had a consequence.

He couldn't pay his debts.

Such, he lost his business. She guessed from the drooping of his ears that he also lost his dreams.

"Yes. I understand."

The desperation left with the unmitigated cheer he exhibited on a daily basis. It unnerved Judith to hear that absence. She had known Buster for a time, known him to be eternally peppy despite the crud that dogged the sidewalks, always happy to be in the world despite the constant ridicule his shows received. The flip in personality unnerved her, yet the job needed to be done.

"Well," Judith recovered, angling her glasses up. "Thank you for your comprehension, Mr. Moon. A third-party business will come through tomorrow and appropriate the financials. Please vacate the property by tomorrow morning."

Buster didn't move at first. As if the weight of the entire, pale Moon Theater collapsed on his head and body, he didn't move. Shrapnel in the form of legal words pierced all motivation to even take a step out of her car, it seemed. His fur turned from grey to _really_ grey right before her eyes, but what could she do? What could she say now? It didn't matter that she simply did her job, and while she could sharpen the mask and be even more of a jerk to him, to shout at him to get out of her car, what good would it be to kick him anymore? No matter the reason or justification, she took his livelihood without a challenge, and regardless if he was solely responsible for this course of action, she couldn't help feel the guilt, as if she stamped on his hopes with but a twist of her high heels.

The bill came due, and she collected. That did not mean she necessarily liked it, to destroy dreams in the pursuit of doing her job.

She clicked off her recorder.

"Mr. Moon."

"Hmm."

"I need you to get out of my car."

"Okay."

He didn't move again. Auto preamble answered her order. The fight punctured and drained out of his system, lethargy settled in its place.

"Mr. Moon," She restarted. Firm and solid, like the bricks and mortar outside.

"Judith? Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did, but continue."

"Can I get my old girl back?"

A candlelit flicker of hope danced in his eyes. Judith related it to a similar scene, early in her career in the bank, when a vigil of 49ers fans stood by and watched Candlestick Stadium crumble into dust and debris. In honesty, Judith had no idea what the SFJ bank would do with the Moon Theater, as it would just wait for a new buyer. Whoever got to it first, well…

"If you can get the money, we can talk then, Mr. Moon. But be warned. SFJ might not be so willing to listen to you, next time. And your credit's going to take a plunge, so better check that, but…if no one else gets to it, possibly."

Moon nodded. Depression saturated his eyebrows all the same, but a goal formed in his heart, and some of that 'pie-in-the-sky' determination filtered to that hugely expressive face. Judith almost smiled, but remembered exactly what she did. Whether he came up with the money or not, remained to be seen.

"Mr. Moon. I have another appointment, so, if you'd please?"

Buster finally hobbled out of the backseat, slower than his spirited escape this morning, finally taking the hint to get out of her car and lick his wounds. Where he would go, she didn't know.

"Good luck." She said to herself, fixing on Moon as she pulled out of park. Nearly getting run over by a green truck, she moved past the koala, having done the deed.

(Unbeknownst to her, a frantic Eddie Noodleman would still be sitting for an hour at the Kraken de Luna, wondering why his best friend stood him up. A phone call later would seal the answer)

The bill came due.

- _Sing_ -

 **Elsewhere...**

In San Francisco, with the shift of a single act, seven lives twisted in their orbit, magnetism shaken, but not necessary stirred.

A young gorilla waits for his family, aware and fine with their misdemeanors and felonies whilst he learned under the instruction of his tutor.

A young elephant, crippled by the presence of hundreds of eyes and ears, enjoys a pleasant birthday with her family. Cringing at their requests for publicity, but fine with where she was at.

A young mother pig, fine with her nurturing lot in life as proud of her 25 children, happy to see her husband return day after day, and pleasing her kids with his refined singing.

A mouse with attitude and class, fine with the dollar bills and pewter coins that rained on his person as he seduced night and day passersby, enjoying saxophone and dulcet tones for the easing, happy mind.

A flamboyant pig with clothes as loud as his demeanor, fine with gaily prancing about in acrobatic parkour while whittling the days as a contrary fitness instructor.

A tough young porcupine, fine with waiting hand and foot on her boyfriend, fine with caring for the genius that awaited her boyfriend's inevitable rise into super stardom, with her faithfully and lovingly at her back.

A koala, no longer fine with his day to day routine, as he watches his home and passion and dream ripped from him by ink marks on a document. That he found a place to stay with his friend was fine, but the crushing of his heart did nothing for that.

As it turns out, being fine does not always equate the best. And as it turns out, sleepwalking through life, a wool sweater over the ears when finding that next plateau, does not do well for one's health.

On the day, after, a curious event occurred, one that had no obvious influence, but brought lives together for a moment. A crisis, involving a truck, can bring strangers together, at the right time, at the right place.

So: Does a river remain on its course, or does it falter when a bridge shambles in front? Do things happen as they would have, undeterred by the cards of fate? Or is that event all the necessary, lest things never come to pass.

Ash the porcupine herself would have no time to think of that, with a freakin' truck running at her and her boyfriend. That she would have be a split second to think and toss herself in the line of fire only spoke of her unconditional love for her boyfriend, however unappreciated that love might be.

She bounced like a tennis ball over the speeding truck and fell into black.

- _Sing: End Chapter_ -


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination Entertainment. I make not a cent on this, as such. Any original characters mentioned are mine. Any songs mentioned belong to their respective owners.

Thanks to those that so enjoy this work: Reviews and feedback are appreciated.

 _Broadway Strays_

Chapter 2: Crash into Me

 **June 4** **th** **…**

Another summer day, nestled in hypnotic expectancy and clockwork anticipation, rolled pleasingly close to midday. Traffic boomed in its own disposition, reflecting both the boredom of San Fran's rigid schedule that its inhabitants adhered to, and the utter chaos enveloping each person's respective life. They couldn't see past their own lives, as it would distract them from their particular goals.

As such, Ash waited patiently and ardently on the metro, trying to get their apartment before it got too late. There might be some time to get cleaned up if the gig she picked out turned out favorably.

"I'm sorry sir, but your passes are expired."

"C'mon! I'm just trying to get to here! My pass is probably waiting on my counter right now!"

"Then why didn't you bring it with you, sir?"

She heard Lance groan, his hand wrenching out of hers as her boyfriend and the ticket-taker trade barbs over the injustice of the situation, combined with Lance's attempts at persuasion. Ash couldn't quite wrap her head around why the giraffe, being such a douche as he was, refused to let them on, besides the obvious. Lance had made a simple mistake: Surely that was passable?

"Look. If you let us on today, we'll pay you double next time."

"Are you bribing me sir? 'Cause you're going to have to do better than that."

Ash could see the changes as they happened, and she felt a pang in her heart. Ash knew several truths right now, at her tender age of 18: Sun shines, grass grows, rain falls from the sky, and she loved Lance, adored him and relished everything about him, from the tip of his pinkie finger to the shortest quill on his head. Every morning she woke seeing his cute face on the other side of the bed they shared, and every night she lifted off to dreamland with his face being the rocket fuel. She dutifully and passionately gave those special three words- yes, _those_ three words- every night before she dosed off, and she was certain that Lance did the same in a grumble. However, as seeing him and doing the small things elevated her, seeing him frustrated or blockaded bounced back on her.

When Lance raged at a fellow for criticizing him, Ash embraced that view, supporting him and turning him away. When Lance bashed a particular song recommended of them because it was too cheesy or peppy, she laughed with him. And when someone cut out his legs by actually calling his music crap, well, she shared in his frustration, and comforted him with her touch.

She hated to see that face bound in anger or scorn. As it did now.

"Lance," Her hand reached up to his shoulder. "We don't need this guy. We can take the scenic route. Scope for some more gigs, right?"

The suggestion was as much pacifying as it was pragmatic, and Ash knew her beau. Appeals to his level headed genius tended to make him forget his anger at the little things, but at the moment, it looked like it wouldn't work. Perhaps it was from the earlier failure of today, but what could be said about that? The bear had no appreciation for rock.

A suave smirk dazzled, settled on his face. The Lance she loved. "All right. Lets go. Who needs you? I got what I need right here."

His hand easily intertwined with hers, fingers locking firmly yet smoothly. Ash's heart gave the familiar flutter, the racing of joy and contentment, the shine of her beau at her base. That he pulled her close only speed the odometer on her heart, forcing a blush unbefitting a girl in her attire, but definitely worth it. He intoxicated her, just loving her back as she loved him, hoisting their hands as one.

The ticket-taker grumbled under his breath, and shut the door of the metro behind them.

He was just jealous anyway.

"So, hey-ho?"

The touch of old Blitzkrieg Bop bounced on her lips. Indeed, in that moment, they could walk the topical five hundred miles and she'd be ecstatic in Lance's embrace. The midday sun shone a degree of pragmatism on that whole affair, reminding her that, despite how much she might like being her, they still needed to get home.

That didn't mean she couldn't have some fun in it.

His answer was a cheeky grin.

"Let's go."

The simplicity of silence, walking on with accuracy better than GPS, carefully and compactly hand-in-hand, gave Ash mental distance. The need to scope for gigs drove and dug in the back of her mind, wary of the bills that would pile up soon. They managed to skate through this month, but all the coins dug out of the couch and bills found among Lance's laundry edged the money just enough. The money granted on principle by the bear (thank _goodness_ that bear paid up front) would most likely get their dinner for the night, but she wouldn't get paid for another two days.

She had tried to bring this up with Lance, but Lance always put her concerns at ease. Sometimes with laid-back assurance, sometimes with a sweet whisper, telling her that he would get it done, and always chasing away those claw marks in her stomach with a sweet, evaporating kiss. Faith in him was infinite, and she was certain that the big break they were fighting for was but a stone's throw away.

Just needed the right moment.

"Ash."

Lance's beautiful voice rolled out like chocolate on a sundae.

"I was serious about earlier. Just stick to the back-up vocals."

A crack of glass emanated from within. It picked her heart at the tip.

"But I was getting into the song-"

"Ash. I was hitting my groove right then. You can't just jump in when you feel in. Give and take, Ash," Lance cajoled. A sigh laced with frustration escaped his lips, but not Ash's notice. "Look, I need someone to keep the beat steady. You do that, while I get everyone's attention with the melody."

A cringe on the front of her heart. Her other hand tightened on her guitar case, even as she squeezed on his. She wouldn't deny that they kinda fought over that microphone piece, but…

 _Did it really sound like he was getting into it?_

The bear hadn't exactly been forthcoming on their evaluations, but he wasn't a fan of punk rock…right?

"Ash. Can you promise me that?"

The storm brewed on her brow, and she thanked fortune that Lance was paying too much attention to the shops to get a look at her guilty conscience. While it was true that she did step a bit too far, that didn't really take away from the song…did it?

"Ash?"

"All right. Next time."

"Thanks, Ash," He nodded an affirmation, that laid back charisma dripping from the corners of his lips, reaching in for a quick PDA on her lips. The jolt of electricity spun through her, from head to toe, and a smile grew on her face, calming briefly the storm incurred by indecision. That confident, 'take the world by storm' expression remained plastered on his face, and her eyes softened all the more at that.

"You're the best girlfriend a guy could ask for."

The declaration, she often heard on the cheesiest of movies yet so _damn good_ to hear from Lance, and yet she floated from his simple statement. Pink tinged her face. A beaming smile matching his own embellished on her face. She forgot her concerns, and at least for the moment, she kept in step with him.

They could get to the heady stuff when they got home, regardless of the crosswalks they had to pass by. For now, all was right with the world.

- _-Sing_ -

"Mickey, Rory, get over here this instant."

Sharp. Terse. Effortlessly slapped out like the paddle she kept for show but only had to use a handful of times and a countable number of years ago.

"Mom!"

Her sons gave an old-hat wail, one she braced herself for every morning, every noon, every evening, and every night, for the simplest of routine to the most eye-catching of tasks. They had straddled the unicorn for long enough, and seven pairs of expectant eyes alighted with envy and anticipation.

"Boys, you've already rode it once. Give your other brothers and sisters a try."

A part of Rosita could only thank the Almighty that yes, it was a Friday, yes, Norman happened to get off, and yes, Norman took half of the kids with him. Although Rosita basically excercised a master's degree in art when it came to juggling responsibilities, the downsides became obvious when she couldn't just spout off the names of all 25 of her children and expect them to act in unison.

Maybe she should get a drill instructor costume…she already had a platoon in training…

"But Mom!"

"No buts!"

Earlier in the week, Rosita concocted a heck of a balancing act, with three guardians across 25 kids. Rosita herself had nine of them with her, close by and enjoying a day out at the Children's Museum. That was the first shift. Norman had another eight of them with him, currently out at the park on the other side of town and enjoying what nature could preserve in the sprawl of San Francisco. Rosita had also managed to hire a babysitter to watch the third portion of kids, taking them to a visitor's day with the San Francisco Giants. The genius was the timing and rotation. To ensure none of the kids missed out on anything the others enjoyed, each parental figure would go to one of the three areas for a few hours, and tag out with the others to go to another area. By six o'clock, all the kids would be worn down by the fun filled day of exploration and sight-seeing, and the parental figures could get some rest themselves as a bonus.

She started with the Children's Museum, but now her alarm flashed on her wrist. Time for her to meet up and head out.

Mickey and Rory got off the mechanical unicorn, and two of her other sweeties- Tess and Carla- got on instead. The others amused themselves, Mickey and Rory chattering about all the cool things in the museum, and the others agreeing or disagreeing as they waited.

Rosita sighed, hiking her purse, and tried to draw on her third wind of the day. Thank goodness the kids enjoyed it. She only hoped Norman and her babysitter could handle the rest.

 _Ok, so you got to meet with the curator sometime on Tuesday for Casper breaking an old fossil…no big deal…and then there was the gum all on the energy, power-plant display…_

She avoided catastrophe. Mostly. Nine kids for one set of eyes is still nine kids for one set of eyes, and she channeled Gandalf the Grey himself trying to count all of the kids around.

 _Lets see…Mickey, Rory, Tess, Carla, Gale, Andy, Vicki, Alexa, Casper, Phoebe…_

They hadn't exactly been too happy wearing brightly-colored bracelets, but Rosita still had 25 kids. Losing track of one of them would only make her fret all the more, and lose her head. If that happened…

Rosita could feel another sigh build up. In those moments, singing felt the best ambrosia. The old and new pop bounced in the back of her brain, and she belted it out under her breath, beat supplied by the chucking mechanical unicorn. Pitch elevated by the squeals of delight on her children, her pride and joy and something that she would never trade in the world.

No matter what some other people said of her.

 _Should I go to the class reunion next month?_

Bringing 25 kids would certainly raise a few eyebrows, but just getting the time would be challenging enough. Norman would have to come, but every day he seemed beaten down and sleeping at the wheel. A poisonous dread grasped her sometimes, wondering if something happened to Norman if he was ever twenty minutes late. The food would get cold, the kids would be in bed, and she would be waiting for him.

He always came home, dragging himself in as if walking out of a war movie. Barely cognizant to the world. Just barely aware of Rosita kissing him on the lips, energizing him enough to get to the fridge to reheat some of tonight's meal. Working as a software salesman, pitching ideas across Skype…all that, admittedly flew over her head.

Before the kids, he never had been that tired. But she dreaded the day that he didn't come through that door.

 _Mickey, Rory, Tess, Carla, Gale, Andy, Vicki, Alexa, Casper, Phoebe…_

Rosita's eyes darted and counted with a mathematician's ease, seeing the kids switch again as she supplied another quarter for Gale and Vicki. She kept account of each voice, high-pitched but slightly different, and she breathed, wired despite her respite.

 _What exactly would the girls say?_

She never regretted her kids. Family was such an important part of her life that imaging what it would be like without them was impossible. When school was up, she found the silence enjoyable for a time, but every day at 3:15 pm., the typhoon that was her kids always brought delight to her face. Norman rounded out the picture, smoothing everything over with being her support as she supported him in his needs, but she needed a comfortable medium. Not having her family scared her. Being ever vigilant so that Gale didn't run out into the street during rush hour, or Casper didn't shock himself by accidentally tossing the hairdryer into the bathtub, or Tess coming across a hobo with a 'lollipop in his coat pocket'…that exhausted her.

 _Like I haven't heard that one before_ …

What did the girls back in high school call her? "Most likely to be a Pop Singer"?

 _Yep. Stay-at-home Mom for me! Oh…Mickey, Rory, Tess, Carla, Gale, Andy, Vicki, Alexa, Casper, Phoebe._

The Children's Museum had had a peculiar little attraction, one that appealed more to Rosita than to her kids. A sound chamber, reflecting the new autotune craze that was blossoming up, had been open for the general public, and all her kids jumped in, rather…messily. Heartwarming and worthy of a camera shot from her cellphone, but then the underpaid worker offered her a chance.

So she took it.

Rosita couldn't hide her smile at the shock and awe. Perhaps the worker expected her to bomb, or embarrass herself, instead of belting out in tune Lady Gaga's _Bad Romance_ with the clarity and reflection of the singer herself. Her kids loved the show, even as she helped the technician pick his jaw off the ground. She probably sounded almost as good as that saxophone over there…

 _Wait._

Her eyes jolted to the mechanical unicorn ride, and did the immediate count. And then counted again when she spotted eight heads instead of nine.

 _Mickey, Rory, Tess…wait, where's Rory?_

Motherhood instincts electrified her.

"Kids! Where's Rory? Mickey! Where's your brother?"

Another military tactic: She made all of her kids keep to a buddy system, save for Casper, who she always put with Phoebe and Alexa. Rory always stuck with Mickey, and seeing one without the other jarred all those wanting of singing stardom from her brain.

"He heard the little mouse over there, Mom."

If he was ratting out his brother, Rosita didn't know whether to be proud that he told the truth so easily, or appalled that he turned on his brother that fast. Saving the questions of morality for another time, she followed her son's outstretched hand, spotting exactly what he said: her brother, Rory, listening, almost mesmerized by a white mouse.

Attention to detail followed the rest, sizing up the miniature mouse with awareness fitting either an engineer or a panicked parent. The good news was that the mouse was completely ignoring her son, fixated instead on blowing his saxophone. Fear ebbed from her, replaced by a bravado and calm, as how really dangerous could a street musician mouse be? Though, she couldn't really figure out why he would wear a tailored red suit- something that even Norman's job would require saving for- and yet play on the street corner. Perhaps he had fallen on hard times?

Rory seemed to like the music, anyway. Instead of bobbing his head to pop, or la-la-laing in mockery like she had caught her kids doing before (when she sang), he seemed transfixed. Rosita, a little more adept at listening to music than the average joe, could only agree. Despite the contrast of classy threads and current location, the notes flowing out of that saxophone reflected nothing if not perfection. Every note lovingly pressed out, touched with a mastery and talent that couldn't necessarily be taught for years, but improved by skill that already existed.

In a moment she was joined by the rest of her kids, a pitter-patter on the sidewalk cushioning under the simple melody. Certainly he knew about their presence, and an eye flicked open.

Another contrast: He almost looked annoyed.

"Oh, hey kid."

Rory did not immediately respond.

"What?" The mouse barked. His enchanting saxophone tilted to the side, and the magic died. "Got something on my face or what, kid? I'm working."

Rory wilted a bit under the tight whip of his words. Rosita could instantly feel that surge of emotion, a mixture of anger at someone snapping at her children and wariness of diplomacy, infiltrate her mind. The saxophone lied on the concrete, looking almost like one of her daughter's accessories for a doll in comparison. The mouse folded his arms, abrasive posture eliminating any residue of his almost magnetic little performance.

"I'm sorry, sir. My son just overheard you playing and-"

"Oh? Liked it yeah? Well of course he would. I got the lungs of angels down here."

He tapped on his tiny chest, emphasizing his point but capsizing her attempts at peacekeeper. A prelude to a migraine amped on her, but she bit it back.

"Mom, can you do that?" Rory asked.

An embarrassed smile flashed on her face. From the mouths of babes indeed…

"Well, Rory, Mommy's more a singer than a saxophone player, so…"

"Oh, a singer eh?" The mouse chuckled. "You look like someone whose concerts play out in the shower, miss. No offense, but I went to the Lincoln School of Music."

A stab of agitation, reflecting back to the earlier concerns of 'keeping up with the Joneses', flashed into her brain, but if Rory or her other kids noticed, they didn't say. Rather, Rory kept up with the mouse.

"Lincoln, sir? Where's that?"

"Nebraska, kid. Don't let location fool ya, though. They might got nothing but farmers for miles, but they got good bones on music there. But if ya wanna hear some more, you can ask Mommy there to…"

He trailed off, instead rubbing his forefingers and thumbs together, giving that universal sign for the cold hard cash.

Rosita straightened up, hiking her purse over her shoulder. Her opinion of the mouse was dropping fast, and she had no intent of paying the musician for lack of niceties, but her kids tugged on her shirt.

"Mommy!"

"We wanna hear another song!"

"We can listen until Dad gets here!"

"C'mon, Mommy! Its not that bad! He's from Nebraska, after all!"

The mouse tried to get a word in, muttering "Actually, Chicago,", but the squeals of her piglets drowned him out.

"Kids!"

Her voice cracked the whip, and with but a word the kids calmed down.

"One song, and then we got to go."

"Yay!" came their chorus.

Rosita tossed a ten-dollar bill at his feet, and he chuckled.

"Normally I'd say you're shortchanging me, but I can see why you might today."

"Just…do it."

"Ok, miss. Watch a real master at work."

And with the flair of a seductive rake and the confidence of a sun, he entertained with the easy listening of a Crosby and (after some chatter from her kids again, and another ten-dollar bill), a Sinatra.

- _Sing_ -

"Johnny? Johnny?"

Boredom broke with the twinge and buzz of radio. Song lulled him into white noise and daydreams, and the young gorilla didn't notice until too late that he missed his cue.

His Dad would be furious: He muffled the radio as best as he could, trying to hide from the rhinos.

"Dad, Dad." Johnny whispered.

"Huh? What son? Is it safe or not?"

"No, not yet. Stay where you are."

Scuffling in the background under the buzz: Stan was probably getting antsy again. His eyes and hands always remained on the alarm systems and safes. Never really felt calm unless he was cracking something, as Johnny recalled. The fact that he disassembled the stove once just because he was getting antsy...

The rhinos disappeared around the corner, happily engulfing their donuts and otherwise left to their own devices.

Johnny sighed relief. At that moment, he had been concerned that everything was going to go up in smoke. As it stood, they were already skating it close with this job. His Dad had surprised him with the planning of this particular heist, hearing about some coin gala which had a lot of really rare coins ready for auction. His Dad didn't have any intent to take the coins, as that would get them caught eventually. Instead, they went for greenbacks, seeking money placed for _buying_ the coins.

Timing had been everything, but Johnny still felt the process had been too hot. Much, much, much too hot for a theft in broad daylight. Never mind that he got drawn away from his own schooling and all...he needed to study.

Tutors didn't ask questions, but they also threatened to drop as soon as you stopped showing up. She had been less than enthused when he had to cancel again for the sake of being a look-out on the job, and even more agitated that he dodged the question. It wasn't like he could lie to her…

Johnny could only sigh. The conflict of interests, as it were, paralyzed him, with song and a bit of education being the best way to escape the pressure. Nothing could compare to his love for his father. Despite all of the gang-related heists and the checkered past that his dad and uncles possessed, Johnny wouldn't trade them for anything. Admittedly, he had wondered about his mom, but Dad stepped in and took as best care as he could, safeguarding their criminal activities as a mechanic service. Honest money mixed with ill-gotten gains, and Johnny had a hard time separating the bad from the good. That he paid his tutor with some of those ill-gotten gains, obtained for his services as a lookout, didn't rankle him as much as he thought it should. He preferred the honesty of an oil change, and perhaps something better.

He looked around the corner, checking to see if the cops doubled back. He hadn't been caught yet, but really, hitting a place so close to a donut shop?

Johnny grimaced. Dad wanted him to be here. Loyalty and love bound his sneakers to the concrete and his back to the wall. His finger rotated the dial on the walkie-talkie, ever patient for an update and hoping to the dickens that the cops didn't go upstairs without his notice, surprise his family, and get them all incarcerated because of his daydreaming. Was he fine being here?

Yes. And there was the problem. He was _fine_. Not great. _Fine_. Like shredded wheaties and oatmeal in your cereal _fine_. Not Count Chocula freakin' great.

His Dad loved doing the heists. Loved plunder and completing a job without the cops ever catching his attention. Johnny didn't have an idea how many of these jobs his Dad had under his belt, but the number probably exceeded the toes and fingers count. One couldn't help but be impressed by his constant evasion of the law, despite the stupid masks that even Johnny felt would fail obscuring a lineup.

Johnny just felt at ease singing. There lied a naturalness to it, yet it remained hidden from his Dad. Something probably dealing with the sheer contrast: Dad remained super tough, as opposed to the singing itself. Again, his tutor admitted to having some skill in singing, but she wouldn't teach him that. Something about having some degree of stage fright...

"Johnny?" The deep baritone of his dad rumbled out of the walkie-talkie.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"We got a lot. You ready? Anyone outside?"

"No. Cops are gone, but might still be close."

"Right. We're coming down. Get ready."

A ruffling in the background emanated from his walkie-talkie. Then another song beeped up. His cellphone, clashing with his own interest and the job, eating at the matter there.

His hands reached out to muffle the noise, lest the cops come back from hearing it. Soft lights shined through, revealing a familiar number and a name he recognized, which lead to its own problem: Why the heck was his tutor calling now?

He looked at the walkie-talkie, trying to get an idea of the timing. Thankfully, Dad and the gang wouldn't be jumping through the window, and take time to avoid tripping over the alarms. Perhaps…

Johnny flicked open the phone.

"Hello?"

"Johnny? This is Meena. Your tutor?"

"Oh, hey. Uh, yeah, this isn't really a good time…"

"Well, you kind of gave me the cold shoulder earlier and…well…I was wondering…"

 _Wondering what? You're great, but I'm in the middle of aiding and abetting theft of hundreds of dollars from a gala where blokes show off bloody coins. Rather than studying John Cheever and trigonometry._

Meena stumbled on, trying to find a foundation but having some difficulty. As if talking itself were a challenge. Johnny tapped on his wrist, hoping for an opening to hang up, for Dad would be around the corner any moment. Being called up bang to rights didn't suit him.

"Look, if you were having some difficulty understanding some of the points last time, well, uh, you can just let me know, and we can go…slower, on it. I figured Cheever to be a bit easier at the start, but I'm not saying you're dumb or slow or anything! Just…everyone's got their strengths and all…"

"Look, uh, Meena…I'd really like to shoot the breeze a bit more, but I really can't talk-"

"Oh! D-Did I interrupt something? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was just trying to see if you would be interested in a scheduled crunch, for your exam-"

"Johnny! Where are you?!"

Cellphone and walkie-talkie chattered at the same time. Paralysis gripped Johnny for a moment, holding both speech contraptions in a hand a piece.

"Hey, who's that?" Both Meena and his Dad uttered.

"Sorry, Meena, got to go!"

He hung up immediately, leading to a break of protocol.

Glass shattered from above him, followed by the fury of sirens catching otherwise skilled burglars. Powerful thuds hit the ground next to him, even as he tried futilely to warn his Dad not to jump the gun, that everything was all right, that it wasn't a _cop_ he was talking to. Even as he formed the words, his Dad and Uncle Stan landed hard on the ground, sacks of money hoisted on their shoulders.

His cellphone rumbled silently, with Meena's name flashing in accusation.

"Where's Barry?!" Dad roared. The roar of an engine answered.

Just as that happened, those rhino cops, the _same bugger-all ones_ chomping their donuts came back, guns drawn. Their mouths moved to 'Freeze!', but Dad and Uncle Stan already were bounding to the escape truck. Johnny, paralyzed and absent his mask, pressed against the brick and mortar, hoping that he wouldn't be spotted.

He heard the hammer cock as he snuck around the gate, trying to get distance between himself and the cops. The gunshot fired, but bounced off the escape truck, instead. Barry had rolled around by now, and all of the gang had clambered into the truck.

Save for Johnny of course.

He already saw one of the rhinos calling for backup. They focused on them, and not him…

A massive arm grabbed at his, hoisting him as they drove by and threw him down. Dad lumbered over him, driving a knee into his sternum.

"I thought you said you were on look-out!"

"Sorry Dad!"

"And where's your mask?!"

Johnny felt a massive urge to argue the finer points of how a small bunny mask would do nothing to obscure the fact that, at the end of the freaking day, he, Johnny, was still a big, dark, gorilla, wearing a rebel leather jacket and a distinctive tee-shirt with a green thunderbolt on the center, and white blooming sneakers, and he was in the company of three, likewise big, dark, bulky gorillas, and any cop actually worth paying would look for a place that had at least four big, dark, bulky gorillas in one area (liberals would call that profiling, but it works sometimes). Given that they ran a mechanic shop, and customers occasionally saw four big, dark, bulky gorillas working on cars and doing oil changes, a cop might easily get an ID, which would lead to getting taken down town, and lead to them all going to jail. No small bunny mask, meant to hide the fact that he was a big, dark, gorilla (and fail miserably at that), would change that.

He put the mask on anyway.

"Barry! Make a turn through Central Junction! Where that Children's Museum is! We'll lose 'em there!"

"There traffic there?"

"So?"

"Ok."

Barry did as he was told. Johnny did as he was told.

"Johnny. You should've kept a better look out."

Johnny's face fell. They got the money right? So what was the problem?

"And don't bring your phone next time."

The phone still beat furiously at their behest.

A part of Johnny stung at the glower of his father. Johnny was consciously attempting to improve his brainpower, so he could connect the dots on occasion. This whole day, combined with his father's more...brash approach to schemes, buoyed on maybe past successes, gave him pause. His phone beat with the concerns and timetables and formulas and literary expressions expected to be obtained as skills for the future of schooling and learning. His walkie-talkie, buzzing haphazardly, reminded him of the on-and-off life of paydays and theivery. So what if they had the garage as support, if all that came crashing down?

"Don't worry, son," His father rumbled out. He laid back, but at the ready, ears open for the common wail of police sirens. "You'll do better next time."

 _Yeah. Next time._

As if on cue, that common wail, a shrill noise that scattered urban cockroaches and elitist cowards, split open the air on cue. A pair of cop cars, reflecting that old black-and-white, rolled into view, hastily tailing on the beat-up truck.

"Barry!"

"On it, Marcus."

The chase was on.

- _Sing_ -

Meena sat at an open-door café on Central Junction, trying vainly to get her pupil back on the horn. At least before the bus arrived. Mom did want her to get home soon, but she had her responsibilities to Johnny, and he seemed to need some help.

The call, from the school, had been easy enough. Johnny, a graduating senior at a high school, boasted potential that many teachers respected, but he needed to bolster his grades to take some college entrance exams. They had been adamant, and pushed the matter on Meena.

Meena could kind of see the underneath of their haste. Johnny was _big_. Strong. Kind, with no criminal or conduct records. All that athletic ability and good PR meant star athlete. Star athletes needed scholarships and scholarships demanded requisite grades on standardized tests. Hence, Meena was teaching a wide spectrum of subjects to help Johnny ace the college entrance exams.

How she got recommended for this, being a student on break herself, baffled her. How she ended up _accepting_ this, that was easy. The teachers happened to be friends of Mom, and Mom answered in her stead. And she did what she could to help. She even offered it as an alternative to entering the college choir. Meena took the tutor job.

Talking to one person was so much easily and bearable than singing in front of a crowd...even if she blended in with a cast of other singers, dressed in similar attire. It didn't matter, as the fear clenched and clutched at her heart still.

A dream...what a lovely dream.

She was fine with the books for now, fine with the world for now. The world turned without her notice, and she had found the prior day enjoyable. It was always good to see Grandpa in such a happy mood.

She actually had tried to take her Grandpa up on his wish. They so much wanted her to sing, to use her talent, but they did not do so out of selfishness (as Mom explained of some friends she had in her youth. 'People always be looking to use ya if ya not careful', she had said). They just wanted to see her happy. Meena replied that as long as her family was happy, then so was she.

Unfortunately, the surprising news of the Moon Theater being such down because its owner defaulted on his bills crushed one such avenue. She had gone earlier that day to see about auditioning for something, anything, at the behest of her Grandma. To see yellow tape, 'Men at Work' signs, and 'Property of SFJ' certainly did nothing for those hopes. Kicking the tree nearby suited her.

Having the leaves drop on her from the impact was karma.

As such, she vested herself back into her studies, but even that seemed impossible. Central Junction bubbled its commotion at this time, with the cars and the people and the fountain drawn in a usual and yet unusual twist. That this area got a lot of crowds didn't surpirse her, but there seemed to be more things sticking out.

As if her mind hadn't been primed by her dreams of music already, she could cherry-pick the taunting, tell-tale images of that profession all around her, mocking her from a glass ceiling that she couldn't break.

She looked over her guideline, trying to get more information on John Cheever for Johnny. H. P. Lovecraft, strangely enough, seemed mentioned in the same text, making her wonder what kind of education program wrote these books.

Her ears perked up, aware of the noise soothing and yet dripping with arrogance. She recognized the skilled jazz of a saxophone anywhere, and lifted an eye from her guidelines. Some distance from the cafe she was at, a mouse (how tiny he looked from here, and yet so powerful his music) pumped out notes from a barely discernible sax. A pig and (she guessed) her kids stood transfixed at the powerful melody, freestyled and yet memorized with suave clarity. Meena herself felt the lure, but stopped at the emotion of the chords. They were beautiful, but she had a theory of how music tended to speak of who a person actually was. If so, that sax wasn't the only thing that talked cocky. Never mind that a crowd had gathered around the mouse, not just the pig and her kids, but also other passersby. She saw even more pigs gathering around, kids, an adult in a suit, and an adult in the brightest tracksuit she had ever seen. Family, maybe?

 _Cheever. Back to Cheever._

She wouldn't get noticed anyway. What could she say? She was already hard-up on cash anyway.

 _Maybe having him read_ The Swimmer _and comparing it with some of Lovecraft's works would help him see the differences in style and expression_...

The phone remained on the table, inert, and damning of her with its electronic lights.

She had _tried_ to get Johnny up here, but nothing seemed to be coming of it. Johnny for some reason had _something_ keeping him from talking- a dramatic step away from what she had screen in their brief time together. Johnny had been nothing but polite to her, and Meena could see why her fellow volunteer tutors called her 'lucky'. Yet despite that unfailing courtesy, she could also sense that he was hiding something...which was odd, because _nothing_ really implied that he was a problem student. According to the conduct report she had received, he had no transgressions with the law, no time in Juvie Hall, no cases linking him to drugs or violence or even a random victimization of fisticuffs. If anything, he kept a bit to himself, and that, combined with the promise of college sponsored athletic stardom, kept her a bit curious.

It seemed almost too good to be true, to be that nice and not have something detracting from it. Meena had her shyness around people, but she liked to think herself a good person all the same. Johnny just seemed to have something...

 _Is he having trouble with his family?_

She did hear a deep voice on the other end...

Ever since they started this, they never met at Johnny's home. Not once, since May, had they met in the comfort zone of where Johnny rested his head at night. Instead, they always texted a place (the cafe she say at now became the inevitable default) and did the work there. In fact, she can't recall ever actually meeting his parents.

 _And there's the negative in the picture..._

Johnny was super nice, but he might have a trashy homelife...did she need to mention that to the school? He had seemed incredibly reluctant to talk on the phone, a dramatic pull from his usual manners...

She jotted on her guidelines, adding _Herbert West-Reanimator_ to the 'things that Johnny should read' list.

"Why don't we try here, babe?"

"Ash, look at them. Probably in Kardashian's pockets..."

Meena glanced up. Not far from the entrance of the cafe, standing right at the crosswalk and traffic lights, a pair of porcupines looked inside the cafe. Meena herself liked the cafe for the sake of its quiet, almost demure atmosphere, where she could study and help out her pupil. Everything about the porcupines, though screamed a louder, brasher tastes, from the way their quills were done (and her Grandpa had more than enough stories about the porcupine ghettos in Oakland), all the way down to the guitars in their hands. A pair of hands from each remained locked together, telling that yeah, they were boyfriend and girlfriend.

The boy porcupine knocked on the door, drawing out the manager. Though she still had some work to do, Meena's big ears couldn't help eavesdropping.

"Hey, you need some talent? Some music for your customers?"

"Who the blue hell are you, scrubs?"

The manager of this cafe dramatically differed from the actual atmosphere. She could already see the boy porcupine flare up at the kangaroo, only for the girl to step.

"Sorry, sorry...lets start over. I'm Ash, this is Lance. We're freelance musicians looking to rock out. If you got a spot for some hard rock, then we'll take whatever times you got."

The kangaroo rubbed a chin, his own attitude assuaged by the peacekeeping of the girl porcupine. He turned to the boy porcupine.

"Not that I'm against it, but...you realize I get more students than rowdy folk. I mean students that major in math and science, not major in beer and girls, right?"

"Can you give us a shot?"

"Yeah. Not like you have anything better to show off."

"Scrub, you let your girl talk and kiss her feet if I decide to even give you five more damn minutes of my time." The kangaroo bounced back to sheer anger.

Meena kept listening, aware that this was none of her business, but this was, if but for the moment, more interesting than Cheever and Lovecraft.

The conversation hushed a bit, under the roar of the traffic, before she heard the kangaroo boom out again.

"Sure, I can give you a shot-"

"Ah sweet."

"-But just you, girl. Keep your boyfriend at home."

"What!?" Both boyfriend and girlfriend exclaimed.

"I'm serious. That's my terms. She can play, we'll try it out, and _maybe_ I'll let you both. But that's it. I know my audience."

Meena was no super psychologist, but she gathered what the heck was going to happen next, judging by body language alone. The boy porcupine stomped away, and his girlfriend seemed damn near torn between everything.

"So, Ms. Ash, then...come tonight at 8:30 pm., and we'll talk from there. You come and do well...maybe I can keep you on tabs."

"Yeah, uh...great..."

"If you no-show, don't bother coming back."

"Ash, C'mon, we don't need this-"

"You ain't a part of this, shorty! Beat it!"

"Hey!" Ash stepped up, actually sizing up to the kangaroo. "Do-please don't talk to my boyfriend like that."

The kangaroo gave an almost impressed nod, but lowered his head. "I'll forget that. Just come tonight and we'll do the rest. Offer's open."

"Yeah..."

The porcupine named Ash nodded, but a lot of that confidence disappeared with her eyes softening to her beau.

"Ash, are they trying to get you to fail? You need me up there with you."

"Babe, I can try, can't I?"

"But you're the back up vocals, the guy's just a wannabe poser..."

"But I can't just let this go! We don't have a steady pay just yet."

"Hey, punk!" The manager called out from the cafe, after walking back in. "You wanna take smack to my face?"

A fight seemed ready to brew just on that crosswalk, and the kangaroo started backing up Lance, size pushing over bravado. From Meena's position, she saw everything, and from her position, she was in a protected enough area to actually see everything that eventually unfolded.

She heard the sirens wail and turn, a trick of the old Doppler effect she studied, and she saw a pair of cop cars hemming in a green truck with three gorillas in bunny masks. She also saw a bus beginning to turn into the Central Junction, loaded with kids that she could see in the bus. The mother pig she saw, along with some but not all of her children, had loaded up to the bus. She saw the mouse musician actually sidle up to the crosswalk, almost invisible due to his size, but just at the porcupines' ankles.

And she saw the boy porcupine out in the crosswalk, in oncoming traffic, in the path of the green truck.

"Lance! Look out!"

Ash could see that Lance was in the road, and reacted accordingly, as girlfriends and boyfriends might, pulling her beau out of the way. However, because the mouse stood so nearby, she actually tripped forward, exchanging places. The truck driver was so focused on the cops trying to pincer him, that he didn't notice the petite porcupine in the line of fire. Because the cops were so focused on catching the green truck, they didn't notice they were on a collision course with the bus. And because the bus driver was probably still taking passes and money for the ride (because of all those kids), he didn't notice that he was going to be hit at the flank...

Meena saw this all, and paralysis claimed her voice. Because who would she shout to, and what would she say?

She heard a vicious thump, and saw Ash's body fly up into the air. Thank goodness that she flew _up_ and not down, as she fell on to the manager and her boyfriend. One of the cop cars spun out, its back end crashing into the bus. A chorus of screams emanated from the bus as it heaved on the side, tipping dangerously to the left. Groaning metal shrieked together, clawing as the other cop car twisted out of control and ramming right into the bus as well. She thought she saw one of the people fall out of the truck or the car, but she wasn't sure.

The bus heaved dangerously on its passenger side, and she saw the pig in the tracksuit running toward everything.

The truck sped off, one of the gorillas looking around, before shaking his head and the truck speeding off.

Meena finally felt the paralysis release her, and she moved to help.

The manager looked up, "Oi! Help me out! You know first aid?!"

"Y-Yeah."

"Well don't stutter missy! You!" He pointed at Lance and the mouse, "Get over there at the bus, until the coppers fix 'emselves."

"What?"

" _Do it or get lost_!"

Meena ignored the argument, ignoring that the boy porcupine did nothing to the situation, stepping into her mind of first aid and her timidity fading due to the danger. The girl porcupine was bleeding from the head...

She pulled off her hoodie, and reconstituted it as a pillow. Dabbing the blood away, she set about the routine of what needed to be done.

 _Ok, check for breathing, bleeding, keep the neck steady..._

"Fine, I hold her head." The mouse popped up, taking the porcupine's much larger head and doing, "but I better get compensated for this..."

Meena ignored the grumbling, more focused on her lessons and thanking all the sacred things that she had actually paid attention to them.

Fine, like clockwork.

- _Sing: End Chapter_ -


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is under the ownership of Illumination Entertainment. I make not a cent on this, as such. Any original characters mentioned are mine. Any songs mentioned belong to their respective owners.

Thanks to those that so enjoy this work: Reviews and feedback are appreciated. POVs will be jumping a bit. POVs will be jumping a bit, but only so much.

Thank you again for your pleasant comments. I appreciate all sorts of feedback.

 _Broadway Strays_

Chapter 3: Kryptonite

 **June 4** **th** **...**

Noise besieged Johnny's mind long before he came to. He blacked out, taking a bit of a spill on the sidewalk at illegal speeds. His prized jacket coated in dust and pebbles, Johnny could only thank small miracles as his bearings came together.

Like the miracle that his jacket, apart from being dirty, suffered no major damage.

Like the miracle that he only got a throbbing headache and didn't land on his head.

Like the miracle that he was freaking _dead_ right now, either by falling underside the cop cars or landing on his head and spilling out like a melon.

Yeah, he could appreciate little miracles.

Unfortunately, the cacophony of noise around him, rousing him from the depths of unconsciousness and raising him back to an alert state, worsened his headache. He stretched in spite of himself, feeling the ghosts of tomorrow that would certainly visit him with pain. He reached for his face, but found no trace of that ridiculous bunny mask over him. Where it had fallen, no one knew, but Johnny thanked his stars again. If he was caught with _that_ on…

The thought of the mask lead to the other spider-webs. Instantly his eyes flashed around for Dad, but in the hectic chaos, he couldn't see that. The urge to panic swelled in his throat and chest. A nursery rhyme in his head calmed him down, treating this instead as a heist, as a plan of entry and exit and not as a bollock-infested load spilling into his lap. How long had he been out? How hard had he been hit? Central Junction offered hints, not straight answers to such pandemonium.

A red light with a crosswalk and a local café that he frequented before centered on everything, like a painting's point of reference. All transgressions seemed to fall back to that one spot, and so Johnny gravitated to its madness. Ambulances rolled up in almost marching-band precision, with some animals shouting back and forth. Johnny couldn't hear exactly what because child-like screaming emanated from the other side, beyond the café. At that, his eyes plied at the grey bus lying on its side in the middle of the road. He couldn't see much from where he was, but only a blind fool wouldn't notice the massive police car rammed into the side where the door of the bus _used_ to be.

Johnny put two and two together and got a number he didn't like.

He could see the cops on the ground. Enough times going out into crime warned him of the dangers. The longer he remained here, the more likely a cop would come and recognize a gorilla that happened to be similar to an earlier scene of a crime. He saw no trace of Dad, but the odds of him coming back barked madness. Too many cops, too hot a scene, too many people that would notice big, bulky gorillas in bunny masks traveling about and doing nothing about the scene.

He looked straight ahead, away from the crosswalk. While most eyes gravitated to the hectic affairs, a broad, open path beckoned to Johnny. His escape route was right in front of him! All he had to do was act natural and…

He started walking away.

Away from the cussing and pleading for help at the front of the café. Johnny though he heard a 'she's not gonna make it', but maybe his brain was playing tricks on him.

Away from the screaming kids, begging for mommy and daddy, crying mixed with the shrill cries of a parent or two.

Away from the struggles and arguments of bystanders, vainly trying to do what they couldn't do, to help.

Away from strangers that didn't know each other from their next-door neighbors, but doing what they could in a bollocks-infused situation.

Johnny stopped, not even getting five steps. His face tore itself in agony. He needed to step forward, needed to get forward, needed to get back to the garage and make sure everyone was all right, but…

 _Are you really going to do it?_

 _The cops will be here soon, and the fire department and the other guys! I can't stay here, or…_

 _Really? Who you trying to fool? If you don't help, who will?_

 _I might get arrested!_

 _Better to try than think about what might've been. Are you fine with leaving it all to chance?_

His foot hovered in the air, then withdrew back. Karma barked at him for screwing up the heist or maybe just doing the heist in the first place. Whatever it was, Johnny hurried quickly to the scene.

 _No. I am not fine with that._

Now, while Johnny, at the behest of his Dad and uncles, valued and tried to learn in the formal institution as much as he could, talents and skills more often needed on the underside of city life came to Johnny as well. He could pick a lock, though he rarely wanted to (Uncle Stan once had him crack a safe before he went to bed: they found him sleeping at the safe the next morning). He knew what to look for when performing 'breaking and entering', if he didn't want to get caught, and he could disable an alarm, either the smart or the brute way. However, given the nature of being in a gang, strength and smarts needed to be used often in tandem. He could push or pull on something all day, but unless he knew what joint to do so at…

Going past the ambulances and EMTs, Johnny stood front and center with the bus. Designed for getting fellows from point A to point B, it looked hideous with its new ornament. Several guys were trying to get things moving, including a sheep, an alligator, two pigs, and a porcupine (well, not the porcupine. Johnny could tell when someone was 'fake-helping). The two pigs seemed almost hysterical, while the others bemoaned the situation due to a lack of strength.

"Gunter, can you keep an eye on the kids?" One of the pigs, a girl pig in a pink blouse, said in a voice bordering on cracking. "I think I can pick this…"

She couldn't, unless she had a degree in engineering and could hold a police car over her head. She was forgetting that gravity was working against her, with the car going down.

"But, Rosita-" A thick German accent perforated Johnny's ears, from the spandex wearing pig.

"Gunter, please, I almost-"

"Rosita, I can't hold the car…"

In their hysteria, in their desperation to get the door open, no one really noticed Johnny's arrival. He quietly tapped them on the shoulder, and heaved himself onto the side of the bus.

"Kids…Norman…Mommy's gonna get you out…just you wait…"

Johnny crept around the mother pig (Rosita, he guessed), and grabbed the bumper of the police car. He looked behind him, then looked at the positioning: He would have to pull it up. Shifting his grip to the rotor on the bottom, his muscles and brain warned him of the situation. Muscles warned that he probably couldn't do this, whereas brain warned that he was going to get caught. Brain fueled by mechanical manipulation formed a new means.

A wench presented itself, located on another cop car.

 _Might as well._

Johnny ignored both, working on the idea, as the bystanders looked in surprise. Looked on as he simply hooked and tightened the chain together, before placing the car in park and interceding between cop cars and bus. He turned to Rosita.

"Ma'am?"

"Heston? Bertha? Roger? Norman?"

"Ma'am?" Johnny softly spoke again.

"Sir, I'm trying to get my husband, can you give me a minu-"

The shrill noise of metal scraping metal and metal ripping cushions silenced him, distracted her, and forced her to look. A steady tumble of chain tightening on a tenuous position, followed by furious effort to pull up and pull out, as Johnny took position, expecting either to be arrested or to get the kids out. Rosita wisely clambered down, shocked at the display. The others weren't so much shocked as they pulled out their cellphones and recorded.

"Ma'am? Need ya to step back. I don't got much strength here-"

He felt the cop car he borrowed buckle under the rules of leverage. He didn't have the leverage, with gravity taking effect, and he wasn't brave enough to get into the cop car. Chain buckled, losing slightly its hold, and the cop car threatened to fall back into the bus…

He heard a scream, but that was all he registered. One moment, Johnny stood between the cop car and bus, slowly drawing the chain in. The next, he had latched both hands on the bumper of the cop car, heaving it back with as much strength as he could muster. His sneakers struggled to find a firm point, but he refused to let go of the car, instead pulling, slowly aided by the still turning chain.

Slowly, slowly, slowly…the bus released the cop car, accompanied by that straining noise of metal again metal. He could hear Rosita's breath catch in her mouth, as he tugged. Legs wobbled like gelatin and felt squishy as spotted dick. His arms screamed from the abuse of today, and his fingers numbed from clenching down so hard. He pulled all the same, as the cop car turned vertical to horizontal, and he collapsed to the side. The cop car dropped at the base, leaning against the tires of the impaled bus, but it was removed like a bullet.

Johnny gasped for air as fatigue replaced his adrenaline. He heard the wench shut off, folks muttering, but he pulled himself back up, slowly returning the cop car back to ground level by virtue of wench and brute power. Like pushing a piano up a set of stairs, he motioned to stop pulling on the wench, and he collapsed to his knees.

 _Well, this is a damn fine mess. You go from stealing from snobs to actually pulling a Charger out…Dad's gonna be fuming…_

He heard the mother pig shouting out. Screams of fear replaced by screams of joy, and that was glossed over by the sirens and melodies of police horns and more ambulances. Johnny looked around him, conditioned response to seek an escape route fastened into his brain. He did a good deed to balance out the bad, right? Certainly he can go without causing problems? Like getting arrested?

"Hold up, there."

The thick German accent again. Johnny's view was filled by a fat face beaming and grinning from ear to ear.

"Where you off to?"

 _Well, sir. I need to flee the scene before the respected officers in blue recognize me for a criminal activity I participated in earlier today. You see, that's being labeled as an accessory, and-_

The pig, whose name he thought was Gunter, interrupted his thoughts with a handshake.

"You can't leave now! Rosita would want to speak to you! Hey! Rosita!"

Johnny could've wrenched his hand out of the pudgier grip of Gunter, but the cops had already arrived by now, and if he started moving, that would inevitably draw attention. Walls formed upon walls as he tried to get some escape route in mind…only a rhino cop to slap a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, big guy."

"'ello?" His voice was weak and meek, and barely came out.

"You the wise guy that used my car like this?"

"Uh…"

"Did you?"

"No."

" _Did you_?"

"…yes."

"Well why didn't you say so, you limey freak? C'mon!" The office, shifting easily from being terrifying to being jovial, nudged him over. "We're getting most things under control, but we need some testimonies over what happened. Unofficially, I actually liked that you did that, but that was crazy."

"Just…helping out, sir. Doing my duty as a citizen, sir."

"I doubt others see it that way, kid, but whatever."

He looked over his shoulder, calculating distance. The cop kept his arm over his shoulder, preventing him from leaving, preventing him from escaping. If he shrugged off his arm, that would most certainly attract attention. But he couldn't run now, not with cellphones flashing and a paramedic checking him and the mother pig embracing him, fervently thanking him for his help. He couldn't run with a horde of piglets blocking his escape route.

 _Sorry Dad._

He thought of a song to sing in his head, but thanked his stars that at least everyone here seemed all right.

Hopefully, he could get to the hideout later, but how far was later?

He eyeballed the paramedics wheeling stretchers out. Another thought kicked in, one that his brain so fervently tried to kick back down, and another that played to the optimist in him.

"Excuse me? You need any help?"

- _Sing_ -

 **Several hours later…**

"Buster, you just can't barge in on my dad!"

"Eddie, please, it'll be fine. All I need is a few minutes of his time…"

"Buster, you haven't even seen the news yet!"

Eddie was overreacting. Had to be. Buster knew he had it in the bag this time.

St. Roche Twilight Hospital loomed high over both their heads, his mood the epitome of calm and Eddie's a frantic exhaustion. Though Buster expected he was pushing it, all he needed to do was walk in and smooth things over. Surely if he talked to the guy himself…

"Buster. I told you, my parents don't want me talking with you. They think you're a bad influence, and if they know about the theater shutting down-"

Buster's brow hardened just the slight. That was why he was here, on Eddie's charity, wasn't it?

The past day had been a car wreck, though he would never actually show it, save when only his reflection in the mirror looked back at him.

Yesterday, he had been on his way to announce his plans for a singing competition. And what an idea it would've been! He would've wagered a prize to draw in the masses, probably with Eddie's help (if he could just get the money), and then the PR and rave success would've allowed him to pay back everything to the bank, allowing him an even field to start again. All he needed was one more chance at the show.

He never actually expected Judith to show up on his former doorstep. He never expected Judith to repossess everything with the precision of a surgeon, cutting away his home, his job, and his passion in a single thrust. He never actually expected the bank to be that forthright on getting their money back. He fully intended to get them everything back! He did. But he needed his singing competition to do so. Now, he didn't even have a place to house his competition. Instead of the auspicious halls of the theater that his Dad helped purchase for him…he had his possessions, but…

A tear threatened to cut through his façade of pep. He willed it back inside, lest he worry Eddie a bit more.

Eddie…what could he say about Eddie? Thank God for Eddie, that's all he could think of for now.

"Buster. My Dad is going to lose his mind if you walk in there. Do you know what he thinks of you?"

"Nope."

"Buster, come on…"

Eddie's face morphed into something haggard, pleading yet unable to abandon him in his pursuit. Eddie talked up his parents as if they were bogeymen under his bed, but Buster knew the right pitch would get things around.

When everything happened, Eddie found Buster at his pool house, curled up with a few photographs, a bucket, and a suitcase. Had he been the most consolable of people? No. Buster got caught, lost everything in a single thrust, with barely anything but the clothes on his back. That Eddie had been supportive bolstered him some, but relying on charity wounded him a bit. Offering him the pool house for a bit shamed Buster, but he couldn't turn it down. Where would he go, otherwise?

Morning had been worse. He woke up wishing the loss of his theater had been just a nightmare. That he had just gone on a bender or a binge and just fell asleep at Eddie's home and that he just could dust himself off, laugh, and get back home to the theater to work and hound off the debt collectors for just a little while longer. That when he got to the theater, the yellow tape was just a prop, the construction worker orange cones were just props, that Miss Crawley was walking slowly up and down the stairs in attempts to get his coffee (and drinking it every time) and not sobbing openly in front of him. That Judith herself stood by, laying down the law like some bygone cardinal herself, ensuring that Buster couldn't say anything to convince the construction workers to leave.

She gave him time to collect his stuff, and when he lingered, begging not to lose the theater, she shooed him on. The only good thing about that, was that Judith told him, get the bank the money, and he'd get ownership back.

Eddie found him again after that an inconsolable mess. His moods reflected a yo-yo at this stage, but what could he do?

He _knew_ his singing competition would work. He just needed a little green to back it…and get his theater back to perform on it.

"Buster. You _can't_ go in there." Eddie repeated.

Buster knew what he was doing. Eddie was always like this, the usual commander contrarian. Every time Buster proposed a play, Eddie was the first to point out the problems, despite not having any theatrical experience himself. He listened, if for anything that Eddie reflected what his audience would think. It wasn't like his shows…flopped financially because of points he brought up…

"What's the harm?"

"My Dad works with sharp objects every day. He literally cuts hearts out of people's chests and gets paid doing it."

"So?"

"I'm afraid he'd do it _to_ you for free."

Buster grimaced. Eddie was being so melodramatic.

To say that Eddie was financially blessed, when Buster had so much difficulty making a sizable profit would be an understatement and a cosmic joke. Eddie's entire family practically sweated greenbacks, though it was as much by skill as luck. He never really talked about his grandparents, only mentioning how posh their houses were, but Buster had met Eddie's parents before, at their graduation. Eddie's mom was a high-stakes, high-priced lawyer that often defended celebrities down in Hollywood for the most ridiculous and profitable of cases. Eddie's dad, on the other hand, was a high-priced, highly skilled surgeon, with hundreds of medical operations under his belt and in the mid-point of multimillionaire in his supposed earnings. Eddie could go without a job for so long because of his parents, but Buster had seen just how damn expensive their bathrooms were. Surely they could help someone out in need.

"Buster, if you go in there when my Dad's working, he will kill you. I'm serious."

"Eddie. Where's your courage?"

"Buster, I know you losing the theater hurt, but you can't do this. My dad is going to lose his mind."

"Eddie, just leave it to me. I got this."

His attempts at placating the situation didn't do much. Instead of nodding in reassurance, Eddie instead looked at the ambulances stacked up at the ER entrance. Buster had heard the sirens about town, but to actually see them all packed up.

"Come on, Eddie. No risk, no reward."

 _And no chance for the show._

He knew he had to go. What more did he have to lose?

The door opened, silencing Eddie's protests with its idle swing and the movement of the paramedics and nurses. Buster waltzed in without a care, Eddie at his shoulder.

"Where's your dad, Eddie?"

"Probably ER. After the accident today...there was this big accident and I got a call saying he probably wouldn't be in until late. So, he kinda got pushed into this."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Dad normally has a pretty well-off clientele."

Buster couldn't suppress his smile. Yes, indeed he could get to work here. Everything would get kickstarted here.

The packed waiting room, however, couldn't even discourage them.

He saw a many a breed of animals here, each doing as what strangers would do when stuffed into a sterile room like sardines. Either they would try to break the ice in the most normal of ways (which often came off a just a tad eerie), or they would completely ignore everyone else, focusing on their phones or their gadgets or their plus-ones. Conflict also seemed to rise just from the decision of being silent or from being talkative, but everyone bore a harried expression, at least from being a witness or from actually involving themselves in the accident.

"Buster. Are you sure you want to do this?" Eddie asked, stalwart in his pleas.

"Eddie. I appreciate your warnings, but it will work out. Do your thing."

"All right. But I warned you."

Eddie walked straight to the counter and informed the secretary behind that Dr. Noodleman's son was visiting. Buster turned away, trying to get a curious look at all the participants. As he had mired himself in despair earlier, he had only heard about everything, but adding faces to the accident calmed him, and for a moment reminded him that, despite all the troubles he himself suffered, others- family-members and friends and even strangers- endured worse.

A pair of pigs close to the door, along with a teeming gaggle of piglets, took over a corner close to the door. Buster almost laughed at the contrasts of the parents, the mother looking simple but professional, whereas the other pig (he assumed husband) wore the most ridiculous track suit he imagined. A third person, a gorilla in a leather jacket, stood nearby almost awkwardly. His head flicked to the door. His feet pointed to the door, but the pigs kept him captive. Nearby. He didn't pay attention enough to gather what they were saying to keep him near, but they glowed in admiration, it seemed.

On the other side, a regular odd couple awaited, as a young elephant in a hoodie and a mouse in a suit sat in tense silence next to each other. A saxophone case loitered under the mouse's chair, but his head remained downcast, face locked into a frown, arms folded, annoyed but not quite ready to boil. The elephant appeared to be in the middle of a mental struggle. Her eyes flickered back and forth among the patrons in the waiting room; Buster tracked the gaze in his idleness, seeing a focus on the gorilla, then back to the mouse, then to the exiting door where the doctor might've been, and then back around. Occasionally, Buster saw her eyes traverse to a porcupine in punk clothing, talking it up with a lady porcupine in heart-shaped sunglasses, but those instances were rare. The elephant's mouth struggled to find the right words to say, it seemed, but each time, whether to the gorilla or the mouse, she froze up.

The gorilla actually caught sight of the elephant, and seemed even more intent to sidle out.

The elephant gave up her pursuit, and slipped her headphones on, oblivious and typing on her phone.

There were others in there. A rhino cop waiting patiently, yet already sizing everyone in the room, focusing intently on the gorilla. A third porcupine male, wearing rectangular glasses and an office worker's getup. And a camel in blue-collar worker clothes, dumb to the world yet humming (Buster couldn't believe this, but his ears weren't wrong) "Largo Al Factotum" from opera lore. Two incensed bunnies that complained openly about the wait yet blathered on their mobile phones. A male kangaroo, grimacing and unable to sit.

Others Buster could've identified like the casting of one of his proud plays, but Eddie tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed.

"All right, Buster, I got us in," Eddie whispered. "Said you had an appendix about to burst."

"I thought we were trying to keep your Dad from blowing up."

Eddie gave a look of almost complete exasperation. "Buster, my parents are rich and workaholics. If I want to see them, I need to give a phrase that lets them know it's me. For Dad it's an appendix that's about to go boom."

"What about your Mom?"

"Some strange man offered me a Jolly Rancher and a ride in his van."

Buster almost coughed. He had done the former before. Eddie grinned, the first time since they arrived, a contrast to the focused look of shock emanating from his face. Because really…an appeal to pedophilia?

"Hey, its works every time."

 _Point Taken_.

Buster clambered behind Eddie, following him as the smells of antibiotics and the beeping of machines invaded his senses. Fortune smiled on him before, as he rarely entered past these doors. Financially, with the troubles his theater had undergone, he couldn't endure a stay in the ER if something happened to him. If one of his workers had suffered, and he hadn't been able to cover it, well, then legal problems would've surfaced, which would've torn him to bits on the media screen. Entering with a clean bill of health calmed him, batted away the smells of iodine and painkillers and cleaning supplies. Eddie, meanwhile, walked through the hospital as if he was walking through the park, waving to the nurses and calling them on a first name basis. They responded back in an almost affectionate matter.

"Dad's not going to be in the mood…"

"How do you know?"

"Nurses are faster."

Buster tossed up a confused glance.

"Dad's not busy or occupied, nurses can relax a bit. They're walking on eggshells right now. Lord, gotta wonder what the bill's gonna be for this..."

"Can't be worse than..."

"Nana could buy your theater and still get me a thunderbird _and_ a top-of-the-line Prius, Buster. Don't force this. Oh, Ritchie!"

A bull dressed as an orderly with gold earrings, looked up.

"Where's my Dad?"

"Dr. Noodleman? He's operating. Some porcupine got flopped like a toad."

" _HEY!_ I'm right here!"

"Sorry, Trenton…"

Eddie quickly interrupted. "So, he's on the table."

"Yeah. But it was minor. Concussion, but nothing fancy. Noodleman'll be out before long. I think there was a piece of the car in one of her hands…"

Buster stepped in now. "Which operating room?"

Eddie's face blooming into outrage did nothing to stop the orderly's response. "That'd be room 2, but I wouldn't go-"

Buster was already walking briskly away before the orderly got to 'I'. Eddie quickly caught up through the serpentine corridors, taking _some_ degree of action and pulling him back down. He brushed aside his hand, before he felt two more clasp on him.

"Buster please…"

"Eddie. What's the worst that can happen?"

"No, Buster. I can't let you do this. C'mon. Let's get to his office." Eddie nodded to the orderly, who had followed just the same, and guided his koala friend away from the operating room.

Buster twisted his head around on a swivel, seeing the branding on the upper threshold, seeing the windows and the animals clambered inside. A sheep, with his back turned, moved his scalpel delicately around on his patient.

Why couldn't Eddie see? He _needed_ to get the theater back. This was the quickest way he could think of. If someone else decided to buy it out…

Eddie opened the door to his father's office, and lead Buster in.

"Hey, want a Jolly Rancher? My Dad gets these all the time."

Eddie dug through a coffee mug on the table, and pulled out a triad of the hard candies, plopping them in his mouth in spite of Buster's silence. Buster himself could only feel some degree on irritation, and even…was it envy?

No. He never envied Eddie himself. Eddie, who was content to live each day, day by day, and never have to worry about fame and fortune because fame was irrelevant to him and fortune literally had been with him since birth. Money and wealth destined to him yet never once a part of his control. Eddie's situation, though…that might spring a bit of jealously. It amazed Buster sometimes, how he could push and create and labor for long hours for a show that he loved with all his heart (but was rated as bland by his critics and paying customers alike), not get enough to 'turn the corner' as it were, but Eddie simply was surrounded by wealth. That partially was why he was here, and Eddie had lent him money before, but that had been early.

He remembered why he was here, in a rich surgeon's office in the aftermath of a news wide crash, angling for a chunk of cash so he could start again. If he tried the _other way_ …the way his Dad did it, over years of toil and embarrassing effort…how _long_ would it take? How long would it take to rest his head in the Moon Theater? Would Miss Crawley still be around to help, or would she move on?

"Buster."

Eddie pierced his thoughts for but a moment.

"You ever thought about…you know…quitting?"

 _Damn Eddie, are you a mind reader or something?_

"Buster. I know how this is going to go. You don't have the money to get that theater. Maybe its time to pack your bags for something else?"

"Eddie. I _know_ my idea will work. I just need the stage!"

"What if it doesn't Buster?"

That ideation- that the singing competition so angelically pictured in his mind would crumble at his feet- that idea died long before it hit long-term memory. It would not fail. Buster Moon the maverick showman would see to it.

"Eddie? Son, what're you up to?"

A rustic, baritone burbled out from the door, and the largest sheep Buster had ever met stepped into the open. Wrapped in the traditional scrubs of a working physician, the sheep towered over Eddie, massive hooves cleaving air. His pleasantries died almost instantly, as he looked down, and Buster met his glance.

"Moon. What the _hell_ you doing?"

"Dr. Noodleman. A pleasure to see you-"

Dr. Noodleman silenced him with but a raised hand, before stomping over to his son. Arms robotically opened and closed over his son, who returned the embrace in the most conflicted way he could muster. After some whispered words, he motioned for Eddie to lock the door and for him to sit.

"Now, let me ask again. What are you doing here?"

The tall sheep didn't look at him, instead pulling out documents and writing dutifully on them.

"Well, Dr. Noodleman, I was wanting to ask a favor, of sorts."

"I _know_ why you're here, Moon. You're a wad of bubble gum on my damn shoe that refuses to detach. Now you're here, again, asking for cash, again, that you will never be able to pay me back, _again_."

"Now, now, doctor-"

"Do you have any idea how damn _asinine_ it is, for me to blow my hard-earned cash away, on a joke? On a charlatan? On some midget that thinks he's Salvadore Dali and he's just a picture of a urinal cake?"

Never once during the whole diatribe did he look up. Instead he remained laser focused on his work. Buster's optimism crumbled a slight bit, but only just.

"Mister Moon," Dr. Noodleman began again, and this time he lifted his head up. "I have seen many like you over the years."

"Showmen?"

"No. Cocksure premed students that think they were the next Hippocrates. So confident that they can blow everyone out of the water they forget they can't swim. You're like that. I remember you at my boy's graduation. So full of ideas…and yet how long has it been?"

"Dr. Noodleman, I have demonstrated my worth. I've won awards before and run the theater well enough."

"Well enough that you no longer own it?" The counter was expected. Buster feinted as best he could.

"Well, I have a brilliant idea to get it back on track, but I need some help with that-"

"And you're asking me."

A curt statement. He no longer looked at him, content to stare back at his work.

"Yes. When I get everything up and running again, then I'll pay you back your money."

"Like you paid back the bank?"

That derailed him again.

"Moon. What good is all that hot air, if you can't get that balloon you call a show off the ground? You want _me_ to give you alms- _alms!_ \- for the sake of a show that has nothing going for it. At least my mother-in-law knows a thing or two about talent, but you can't seem to string a good piece of work together if your house depended on it! And you want me to pay you for its funding!"

"Dr. Noodleman, I can take anyone and mold them into stars, but I need a stage to do so."

"I'd bet a thousand right now you couldn't do it even with a stage."

The doctor remained with his head down and furor ever apparent. His pen stopped moving, indicating that despite the venom in his voice and the absence of eye contact, attention at Buster was ever present.

"How many shows have you done, Moon? How many chances have you received at the wheel? You bank on luck to get you through, but you need talent. And you can't drum up even that. So, how many shows, Moon? I can tell you how many surgeries I've been a part of. I can tell you how many lives I've saved. There's a porcupine on a bed right now just added to that list. That has come from backing up what you say you do."

Buster felt that slight optimism crash upon the shores of this auspicious physician's words. Determination spurred him on.

"I can do better, better than you think."

"Really."

"I can win the crowd with my next show. I can astound and fill my audiences with wonder with the common people here. All I need is the stage."

"Anyone ever tell you to be careful what you ask for, Moon? If you're such a gambling koala, why don't we raise the stakes?"

"Dad! That's not necessary."

"Eddie. Daddy's working." Dr. Noodleman gave a look of pure contempt, cutting at Buster's face. "You said you can take anyone and make them stars? I got a full house in the waiting room. Try to get them for your little show if you're so damn intent. If you make a good show, I'll acknowledge your credentials, and that'll be that. You flop again, and I'll personally buy that theater just so I can bulldoze the eyesore."

Buster almost agreed to that. The words jumped to his throat in such a way that, had Eddie not placed a hand on his shoulder, he would've immediately agreed to the wager. But then that last bit edged in.

"Not so quick on the uptake when you got something to lose, eh?"

The gloating reverberated in his ears.

"Eddie, I'll see you at home, but I got more work to do. Moon, if you got the fortitude to actually take my offer, come on back. I know easy money when it walks in my office and distracts me from my job. I'll have the nurse give you the names outside."

Eddie moved to leave, aware by his face that the battle was over. Moon however, felt frustration delve into his brow, aware of the taunting from the superb position.

"If you're interested, you got a week. If that doesn't work, don't show your face here again unless you already have an injury."

"Sir."

"What?"

"You'll see me soon."

"In a pig's eye."

Eddie motioned with his head, urging him to let the battle lie, unless even worse complication occur. Rather than that, Buster nodded, and excused himself out the door.

The nurse dutifully handed him the list, and he went to work.

- _Sing: End Chapter_ -


End file.
